Those Things That Go Unsaid
by Shiny-and-New
Summary: You know for a fact that he is watching you, because you're always watching him." Futurefic, with overtones of Clex.


You know for a fact that he is watching you, because you are always watching him. You may not be able to see across an ocean or hear a pin drop in Antarctica, but you have eyes and ears across the world. You can see him as he pulls Malaysian children out of a flooding river, as he puts out a bus on fire in Israel, as he lifts debris off survivors of an earthquake in Brazil. And you know that he watches you as plan, deal, manipulate, and control. Watches as you do the things that are more natural than breathing, because you can choose not to breathe. Not forever, but you can stop it for a moment. Your mind, on the other hand, is always scheming. You do not dream of flying or a world inverted into different colors or whatever it is that normal people dream about. You dream of business deals. You dream of Superman writhing in pain before you, the entire world glowing green. You dream of a field full of bodies.

This is the way things have always been.

You know that is a lie, even as you think it, because once upon a time you were both normal. You were a billionaire's son and he was a farmboy. That is the truth.

But the truth is boring, and common, and you are neither. He is neither.

So you have always been Lex Luthor, conqueror and killer, and he has always been Superman, savior and alien menace. Because the world is easier that way.

The lights of Metropolis blur out the stars, even hundreds of feet up. The wind is cold and tugs at your clothing with greedy hands. You are not flying. You are leaning against the railing of your balcony, and you are very, very drunk.

Earlier today, you watched as the Justice League (oh God, that name, that _name_) brought down the CEO of a rival company and when nobody was looking, you bought up most of the company's most valuable assets. LexCorp will turn a tidy profit from it once the panicking stops, and the best part is that you didn't even do anything wrong, not really. Just took advantage of the situation. That, as Superman is fond of telling you, is one of the things you do exceedingly well.

You aren't sure why this particular occasion calls for drinking so heavily, but you're sure you had a reason when you started. Perhaps you were reminded of a memory you'd rather have forgotten, perhaps you decided that one glass of victory scotch simply wasn't enough (there's a glass of wine in your hand now, and it's hard to summon the coordination to bring it to your mouth), or perhaps you simply realized it was a day ending in 'y' and the proud Luthor tradition of self-medication wasn't going to continue itself unprompted. Whatever the reason is, you don't really care.

The sky is a blackish-blue color that, with alcohol loosening your mind, you are willing to call rapturous. It is endless and deep as you stare up at it, deeper than any ocean, the darkness punctuated by only a few of the brightest stars and the familiar face of the waxing moon. You stare hard at the empty space where, a long time ago, a large, red star was destroyed.

You dug through the records, when you figured out the rough coordinates of where he'd come from. The sun wasn't there anymore, of course, but it had gone out in a spectacular bang, and diligent astronomers had recorded the fireworks. They hadn't put the pieces together at the time, but then, no one has ever paid quite as much attention to Superman as you have. And long before some fool had gone on the news and announced the discovery of what remained of Krypton, you had pointed your orbital satellites in the right direction, and seen Superman's home before he even thought to look for it. You consider that a great personal victory.

There hadn't been much left, of course; just rubble where the solar system had once been, too small and fractured to really even be called an asteroid cloud. The star had left behind the usual rainbow of gases, brilliantly colored against the inky black backdrop. Only in space was absolute destruction quite so beautiful.

The lights of the city below are almost as beautiful, but then, with this much alcohol coursing through your system, crime scene photos would probably be works of art. You grip the rail a little tighter, suddenly concerned about falling over the edge, and wouldn't that be an excellent end for you? "Intoxicated Billionaire Falls to His Death from Balcony of Own Penthouse!" That's the kind of ending you expect for that idiot Wayne, but not you. Not that you'd ever hit the ground if you went over the edge.

_He_ would be there, swooping in at a bone-rattling velocity to catch you and lecture you about alcohol consumption and carelessness. It has happened every single time you've been shoved off a building or out of a plane. Once, when you knew he was in the city, you jumped, just to see how long it would take him. You'd barely even fallen a floor before he was there in a flash of red and blue, asking what in God's name you'd thought you were doing. It was like clockwork; you fell, and Superman caught you. You have to snort at the potential metaphor behind the thought, but in this case, it's entirely literal. He refuses to let you fall, probably fearing that choosing not to catch you would be akin to murder. For someone with the powers of a god, maybe it was.

But it's another good reason not to tip off the edge of the balcony, because if he shows up you will start babbling all sorts of inane things, and though you've sometimes lost control of yourself when screaming at him, you have a feeling it would be very different when you were drunk. Because there is a difference between telling him that he is an alien menace and one day you're going to kill him, and confessing that sometimes you hate him so profoundly that it chokes you. There is a difference between saying that his endless set of powers have created a world where the human race depends entirely on some quasi-mystical savior instead of itself, and waxing poetic about how his ability to fly has tapped into some kind of universal sense of wonder and awe that not even you are immune to. A difference between sneering that his uniform is stupid, and ranting about how he has this one set of boots that don't quite match the red of his cape and it drives you _absolutely goddamn crazy_ every time he wears them. A difference between telling him that he stands in the way of all of your goals, all your wildest ambitions; that if he didn't exist you would likely be ruling the earth right now, shaping it in your image, the right image, and…

And admitting that you honestly cannot imagine your life without him. From Smallville onwards, you cannot picture the world today if he'd crashed on some other planet. It's like imagining how life would proceed if you'd never been born; you can get a vague idea, obviously, but it seems pointless. You are here, and he is here, and some part of you that you will never quite forgive has been quietly pointing out the uselessness of your continued attempts on his life for a long, long time now. Because when he dies, and dies permanently, it will have to be by your hand, and you have no idea what you'll do afterwards.

You remember the story of Phyrrhus and his battles against Rome, and the monumental cost of victory. You wonder, not for the first time, if this is a battle it might be smarter to lose.

And then your wine glass goes over the edge of the rail.

"Shit," you mutter, reaching after it feebly, but it's long gone. You have a vague concern about the glass landing on someone after a hundred foot fall, but there's not much you can do at this point besides squint in consternation and wonder if there was any wine still left in the bottle inside.

Time seems to skip, because suddenly he is hovering in front of you, holding your wine glass in one hand. You wonder if you are hallucinating.

"Did you throw this off the building?" he scowls, gesturing at you with the glass.

"That would be completely idiotic," you say, and you only slur a little bit, for which you are proud.

Seeing him is a little bit like going crazy, and it happens every time you lay eyes on him. A rush of emotion, hate and jealousy and curiosity and frustration and _yearning_ for a time when things were different. The emotions overwhelm you, as do the memories. You know everything he's ever done to you, everything you blame him for. You recite it to yourself like a rosary, like a mantra or a prayer. You are the founder and high priest of The Church of What Superman Has Done to Personally Ruin My Life.

But you also remember all the things you've done to him. And while most of the time you simply write these off as acceptable actions in your unending war against him, when you are drunk and introspective, you're willing to admit that he probably leads the pack in the Lex Luthor Has Ruined My Life club.

This is why he has to go away. Because if you talk, he'll give you the _look_, the one that's somehow condemning and sad and filled with pity all at the same time. You hate that look.

Superman sniffed at the air, and scowled more deeply. "I see you've made a dent in the mini-bar."

With maximum effort, you resist the urge to tell him that there's nothing 'mini' about your bar, and instead glare up at him. "What are you doing here? Isn't there a puppy you could be saving from a tree?"

"A puppy from a tree?"

"You know what I mean," you growl, feeling yourself start to tip over a little.

He is still holding your wine glass, and it looks ridiculously fragile in his huge hand. You want to tell him to give it back, but you worry that would sound childish. Instead, you simply cross your arms, lean against the rail for support, and try to look as arrogant as possible. You've had practice.

"Spying on me again, alien?"

"I never spy on you, Luthor," he says. "I check to see if you're up to something. You always are."

"I am standing on my perfectly legal balcony getting drunk," you say, ignoring his incredulous muttering of the word 'getting'. "There is nothing wrong with that. Go away."

Because if he stays, and oh God, you can already tell he's going to, you'll not only start talking, but start really looking at him as well. You do not want to ponder the embarrassment of getting an erection while staring at what seems like miles of tight fitting blue spandex and the curve of the muscles underneath, though you do take comfort from the fact that as drunk as you are, you probably couldn't get it up if you tried. Perhaps it's that stray thought that causes you to finally _look_ at him, and then you're caught. You always are.

For the past several months, maybe even years, every person you've taken to bed and had even a mild interest in seeing again has had blue eyes and glossy black hair. You've come to grudgingly accept that it is not a coincidence. You've even given up pretending that it has anything to do with the Amazon with the lasso, or even that idiot Bruce Wayne. When you try to picture anyone else, they are invariably dressed in red and blue, and their hair curls across their forehead in a way that exactly one person can do right.

And now, with the object of your obsession floating here, you just want to bash his head in with a brick.

"I know what you did today," he says, setting your wine glass back on the railing and crossing his arms. "Why are the more profitable parts of Jackson-Turion Enterprises now owned by you?"

"That's not illegal," you point out. "Not even insider trading. Not my fault that they were in a panic and sold."

"They were in a panic because their CEO was funding African warlords and building a nuclear reactor in the basement of the international headquarters."

"Amateurs. It won't even be that long of a prison sentence."

He glares, and he never glares at anyone else in quite that way. It is special, just for you, a glare of anger and frustration reserved for someone he's battled through decades. That glare has been sent your way through war zones, cubicles, court rooms, and space itself. It is as familiar to you as your smirk must be to him. The years, the obsession, the unending dance that you both do mean that you know his mother's Social Security Number and he knows how much you pay in alimony to your ex-wives. You would say that you fight like an old, married couple, except that you actually fight like you're trying to kill each other.

"Luthor-"

"I didn't do anything wrong today," you say, and your words are starting to slur more. "Go away. Leave me alone." You wish you were alert enough to say something crushing, but as it is you are caught between uncomfortable truth and habits too deeply ingrained for even intoxication to completely take them away. "Why can't you just leave me alone?"

"You won't let me," he says, and judging by the expression on his face, he wishes he hadn't said anything at all. "I mean-"

You make a rude noise and a dismissive, vague gesture with your hand. You aren't in the mood for his honesty anymore than you're in the mood for your own. At this point, you want him to go away so you can pass out in peace. It occurs to you that, as always, it might be up to you to make the first move. You turn around and walk back inside your penthouse.

Or you intend to, anyway. Unfortunately, you've reached that stage of drunkenness where walking smoothly is just not something you're up to. You trip over nothing at all and realize that you are going to do a drunken faceplant in front of your worst enemy and ex-best friend. You pray you're knocked unconscious to spare you the embarrassment.

But you never hit the marble tile of your balcony. His arms are around you, holding you up like you're some film noir heroine who just swooned at the sight of blood. You can feel the heat of his body through your clothes, the strength in his arms, the gentleness of his hands on your back. Hands that could crush you without any effort at all. Hands that cradle you like you're something delicate and fragile.

It brings back thoughts you've spent years trying to suppress, emotions that threaten to drown you completely. You stare at him, slightly panicked, and he stares back. His eyes are wide and bright blue, such a shocking contrast to the dark sky above you both.

"Put me down, you idiot," you say after a moment, your voice less steady than you'd like. He puts you back on your feet without a word and steps back, his expression hard to read. You straighten your shirt, raise your chin, and give him the most regal glare you can manage.

Then you take another step and do the same goddamn thing. It's profoundly embarrassing.

He mutters something completely unheroic and catches you again.

This time, he doesn't bother letting go of you. He sighs harshly through his nose and scoops you up, one arm supporting your shoulders while the other lifts your knees. It feels very secure, which is why you immediately start wriggling and cursing, trying to get loose.

"Put me down!"

"I'm not going to watch you break your nose trying to walk inside," he says, holding you effortlessly. He walks to the balcony door, punching in the security code with the hand holding your knees. Your brain is foggy from the combination of alcohol and the mind-bending sensation of being held against Superman, so it takes a moment to register that he's breaking into your penthouse.

"Hey, hey! How do you know that code? That's an invasion of privacy!"

"I picked it up while I was spying on you," he says, sounding deeply put-upon.

"I knew it!" Doing a victorious fistpump is difficult when you're severely lacking in hand-eye coordination and part of you is squashed against a giant alien chest.

Speaking of giant alien chest, his feels as good as ever. You wouldn't have thought he could possibly get any _bigger_ than he was as a teenager, but Clark has always been full of surprises. You usually don't get the chance to appreciate being pressed against him, since most of the time that involves bleeding, trying not to vomit, falling from absolutely terrifying heights, or some combination of all three.

He opens the door and makes his way across your living room, navigating easily despite the fact that the room is dark and you've remodeled since the last time he crashed through your window demanding answers. It occurs to you that it's been a full three seconds since you've insulted him or tried to wiggle away, and you need to remedy that before he gets the wrong idea.

"Up close, your costume looks even more idiotic," you say. It would perhaps be more crushing of an insult if your head wasn't lolling against his shoulder, but it was the first thing that popped into mind.

"I notice you haven't worn any of your robot suits out lately."

"Shut up! My robot suits are pinnacles of technology and innova..innovas…science! I got tired of you smashing them, is all."

"Of course."

"That sort of smug attitude is the reason you're a danger to mankind."

"Less than ten minutes ago, you dropped a wine glass off a hundred-story building in one of the busiest sections of a major city."

"What's your point?"

Instead of answering, he just sighs again and opens the door to your bedroom. The lights are off, but the curtains are open and the lights of Metropolis have crept in, illuminating your room in patches. The blankets on your bed are rumpled from where you fell earlier that night, no doubt in a heroic struggle to find the bottle opener. You wiggle again, more for show than anything else.

Superman lays you down on the bed, and he's actually fairly gentle about it. That makes sense, since it usually takes at least one experiment-gone-wrong to make him violent. The sheets feel cool against your skin, and your shirt is rucked up around your chest, exposing your stomach. Still irritable, you give an exaggerated stretch, and see that he's looking tenser than usual.

You realize suddenly what this looks like, what it feels like. Superman carrying you to bed, you stretched out and stripped of your business suit and most of your inhibitions. It's probably especially awkward for Clark, who's always been so skittish about all things remotely sexual, especially when they involve you. You make no move to pull your shirt down and instead tilt your chin up, challenging him without saying anything.

But Clark isn't a teenager anymore, and he's learned to parry most of your more obvious attacks. Instead of blushing and looking away, he just raises an eyebrow and asks, "Do you have any more alcohol stored in here?"

"I can drink as much as I want," you insist, more to be contrary than anything else. It's probably a good idea to stop for the night.

"You've had more than enough," Superman says flatly. "I can see your liver, and it's already working overtime."

"That's so unsettling," you say. "That sort of thing is why no one likes you."

"You'll thank me when you don't die of alcohol poisoning," he says, raising his eyes and scanning the room. Apparently satisfied that there's nothing alcoholic within reach, he looks back down at you, expression inscrutable.

"Are you just going to stand there all night, or are you going to do something interesting?" you ask, folding your arms behind your head after several tries.

The look Clark gives you is one of mixed exasperation and tolerance, which you haven't seen in a while. He picks up your pillow, which was apparently halfway under the bed, and tosses it to you.

"You're going to have an amazing hangover tomorrow, you know."

"Please," you say, rolling so that your face is half-buried in the pillow, "I'm invulnerable."

Superman just rolls his eyes and says, "Should I check up on you through the night, to make sure you don't start throwing up and choking?"

"I don't need you watching over me," you say, but without any venom. You're actually feeling sleepy now, your eyes heavy and your limbs languid.

"But here I am anyway," Clark says, more to himself than to you.

It reminds you of all the times he's saved you, from the first time onwards. You know (even if he's not sure about it) that no matter what terrible thing you do to him, he'll always save you. You've wondered why, if it's guilt or lingering friendship or duty, and you've never come to a satisfactory answer.

The little, niggling voice comes back, now that most of your rage and defiance have been plowed over with alcohol. Sometimes it sounds like your mother, or Clark when he was just a kid, but right now, it just sounds like you. It points out that Superman is always going to be in your life, that killing him will probably be the end of you as well, that maybe it's time to get a new plan.

You groan and pull the blankets over yourself viciously. You're assigning your random thoughts their own personalities. Maybe you really are crazy.

"Lex?" Superman asks, the tinge of concern in his voice unmistakable.

"Clar-" you start to say, and cut yourself off before you do something unforgiveable. Superman looks at you, equally startled, and you both stare at each other like you're waiting for a bomb to drop. The two of you don't talk about your past, at least not that one. Smallville is filed away, kept under lock and key, and to open it would…you're not sure what would happen, honestly, and for once, your caution has won out against your curiosity.

"Superman," you correct yourself, but the damage has been done, and Clark is staring at you with the considering expression that means he's planning to do something stupid. You're far, far too tired and drunk to deal with any of it. You close your eyes, curl up, and say, voice final, "If you're going to be lurking around my penthouse, you might as well make yourself useful and clean up. There are bottles everywhere. Now get out of my bedroom and shut the door."

You have the feeling that Superman is smiling, just a little, as he says, "Fine, Lex. I'll be around."

You grunt in response and listen with relief as the door shuts.

You spend the rest of the night and most of the next day asleep, barring your trips to the bathroom to vomit and to the kitchen to get water. Nothing else happens between you and Clark that night.

But, as the irritating voice in your head reminds you, it's a start.


End file.
